FM -1.

0- EM

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A GUIDE

TO NAVIGATING THE INEVITABLE

DESCENT INTO CHILDHOOD MEMORIES, AND
THE RESULTS OF SUCH A JOURNEY
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 2016
Song Bird Publishing House
Katie Rose Kaufman
All Rights Reserved

DISCLAIMER:
THIS FIELD MANUAL IS NOT INTENDED
TO BE USED IN THE PLACE OF
OR IN ADDITION TO
PROFESSIONAL PSYCHIATRIC HELP.

________________
If found,
please return
to your nearest neighbor.
_________________

Field Manual # 1

Table of Contents

1. steps

2.

how old were you when you were one?

3.

this nagging little worm in your heart

4.

it wouldnt hurt

5.

bathroom rugs

steps.

It takes a trigger. A catalyst. A sniff of green

apples and peanut butter, or a glimpse of
violent sunlight bursting through a smudged
car window. The sound of change clinking
in the dryer while the dishwasher chugs a
rhythm. Anything? Yes?
What does the sight of bloody skin covered
by transparant bandages say? The touch of
a thready speckled carpet? The movement
of a hand dropping gobs of gooey fudge into
a glass bowl? A cracked glass bowl, full of
ravioli? Hm? Anything?

How old were you when you were one?

Diaper changes, applesauce, a plastic highchair with cold plastic covered cushions.
Your parents remember you then but you
probably dont, these early years are lost to
you. Lost to you, and do you feel the loss?
Lost forever, this age ago, when age wasnt
old enough to know age. To know time. To
know what happens when someone dies
and suddenly age has disappeared and left
[what?] behind. Aging begets sorrow.
Nothingnesss.
Dont you wish you could remember the
time before age, when nothing wasnt real?

someone died...?
the funeral was in indiana.
how could we face his wife?
i didnt want to see her, to see her alone.. i didnt want to
see her tears, i didnt want to see the wrinkles,
the funeral clothes, the box of medals, the sunlight on the dark
wooden box where he was.
the last i remember of him was when he grasped my
shoulder to steady himself while he filled his diaper.
so many stories left untold. wartime legends and
memories, lost with his body. i never asked him about his life.
about their life. i cant talk to her.
eighty years spent side by side and SO EASILY
rent assunder in the face of AGE. love is destroyed by
it, by the nothingness it leaves behind.
i didnt want to see the face of what im so afraid will
happen to me. to be left alone, alone to live, alone to
face my own age of reckoning. alone.

this nagging little worm in your heart

Yes yes yes, I know. Pain, sorrow, misery, its

all on the horizon now. Thinking about
what-used-to-bes, what-could-have-beens, it
is the perfect environment for a little black
kernal to nestle itself right between your left
and right ventricle. No doctor will be able to
find this tumor, no machine and definitely
no miracle. It will squeeze, it will vibrate, it
will even grow if you let it.
It feeds on the thick syrupy addiction to
gauzy half-remembered dreams and wistful
regrets, to nauseatingly nostalgic nonsense
as it slides its wriggly tongues incessantly

into your only heart. It takes no prisoners,

it has no mercy, it will wriggle forward and
around every organ you have to offer it.
Unless
You can keep it quiet. dont feed it copious
amounts of your terror, of your sad self pity,
dont help it.
Give it a taste now and then, enough to
begin to slake its thirst, but you have to
stop. Your only hope is self-control, and in
the face of delicious, easy memory it can be
very hard to stop looking. [dont look]

i looked.
oh god i looked and i regret it please let me forget.
except.. let me see that again. click, click, click...
gross. why is it moving like that? wait, what is THAT?
is that normal? can every body do that? this is so weird.
im not supposed to know the things i do. to have seen things
that ive seen. its supposed to be a big giant secret, but now
i know what things get big and i dont understand why but
i know. and thats what keeps me alive.
keeps me alive, knowing things. knowledge is not allowed
in this house, at least not wordly knowledge. i can know
that heat rises and some people are bad but god forbid i ask
why, and why we live, and why we die, because if sinning
is forbidden by god, why isnt dying?
they cant answer those questions, and they dont want me
asking them. so ill just click, click, click, and find
the answers on my own.

it wouldnt hurt / hearts dry up

To look, oh to look
and see. Oh hope like seas
that have withstood, wet
Whalebones encasing
dry hearts. Hearts that
would dry up without those whalebones,
Without those looks back. Hearts dry up.

impending

Images flicker, come and go like bonfire

flames in the clouds. An old rusty projector,
rounded corner squares flash by. The afterimage lingers in your eyelid. Frost on car
door handles, worn fingernails caressing a
steering wheel, traffic lights streak along in
the dark window. Pink tights, pink bag, burgandy seats, kahki pants, fleece jacket.
Engine rumble. What do you want to be
when you grow up?
A soccer player, a ballerina, an astronaut, an
artist, an astronomer, definitely not a
mother.

Engine rumble. You should probably find out

soon, so you can start getting into it. So you
can be good at it, so you know for sure thats
what you want to do. So, what are you good
at?
Images flicker. Candlelight. Sitting in bed,
what is a life-long goal? Fairy lights shimmer, what am I good at? Scrambling for a
purpose, Im good at getting lost in stories
and not thinking about my own. Hiding,
waiting, my time isnt now, is it?
Heart twists, fairy lights burn out, projector
stops, here comes the despair. We are
addicted to it. Oh we are.

bathroom rugs

At this point, you should know remembering

isnt always despondantly dreadful. Think
back to a happy memory, if you have one.
One with worn towels and cream cheese on
strawberries. Mud puddles in a dark blue
driveway. A mint green plastic case filled
with glittery gel pens and play costume jewels. The top shelf in a closet, filled with china
dolls and musty bedding. A purple bathroom
rug splotched with hard, dried, white, toothpaste spots and lonely rubber Polly Pocket
dresses...

White, long-haired rugs that cling to your

damp feet. A dark red rug that spreads red
floaty fuzz with every swing of the bathroom
door. A matted, thin, grey mat that cant
seem to dry out, while water drips from
slogged yellow rags into the narrow white
tub. Condensation rolls down the painted
cabinet, splashes dully onto the dark green
fluffy toilet cover. Soft giggles, gentle splashes, the sink faucet squeaks, a plastic cap
rolls off the counter, Look, if we add the
pink shampoo to the yellow soap, it turns
orange!.

we were chemists.
mad scientists, evil doctors, we concocted such divine
potions in our make shift vessels.
The doll house roof, our body soap cap,
the toothbrush dish, the toy dust pan
. Everything in the bathroom was
an ingredient, nothing was safe from our imaginations.
White baby power, translucent yellow baby soap,
hard green bars of irish spring,
pink and blue striped toothpaste,
grainy old conditioner from underneath
the sink and crusted to the bottom of the bottle,
we used it all.
My sister had pink glittery body soap that our mom hated,
my brother had spider man cologne that smelled
just like lysol, and the rest of my siblings had
yellow rubber ducks with different
colored beaks.
i never played with those ducks with the colored beaks.

Pink for love without consequence,

orange for laughter without underlying fear,
blue for pure tears that have an ending,
green for unbreakable trust,
and yellow for the water squirting games.

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FM -1.0- EM